As The Lights Go Down
by blatta arrowhead
Summary: You only get one life, one chance to really do anything. You pull through enough to make it out, but where does that get you? Task Force 141 revival-esque fic, Ghost/Roach throughout and Makarov/Allen here and there.
1. Prologue: Right Where We Left Off

**A/N: **I dunno what to say. I like taking canon into my own hands and twisting it into something that satisfies my fan-isms.  
You should try it sometime.

Ghost and Roach are the main characters in this in my eyes okay STOP JUDGING ME DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT.

Lots of swearing. Lots of BS'd stuff, so if you're a MW2 canon Nazi, you will hate reading this on account of me taking liberties in preserving characters because their deaths did not please me in the slightest. :D  
Or if you're a realism Nazi, yeah you'll probably just really hate me for writing this. (as in; hey, shot at point-blank range? Walk it off, you're fine now.)

* * *

**Caucasus Mountains, February 1st, 3:55 P.M.**

Let's jump right into things.

The Task Force was being purged by its own commanding officer and whoever was lucky enough to still be alive was either A) half-dead or B) left to deal with incredibly deep shit.

Archer and Toad fell into the latter category.

They both figured that they were probably fortunate that they hadn't gone down to the LZ with Ghost and Roach. They were close enough to watch what went on through their scopes, much to their dismay. Scarecrow was nowhere to be seen, presumably killed on the way out of the safe-house. Shepherd took care of the Ultranationalist pursuers, which was admittedly extremely convenient. The sniper team was quick to relocate and hide from Shadow Company, but they didn't dare venture far from the pit in which their teammates laid. Shepherd wasted no time in leaving the Georgian-Russian border, and in his wake, four Task Force members; two of which were dying and the remaining half painfully aware that they had to act fast if they wanted to save their comrades.

Archer was the first to react once Shepherd's chopper left. He hopped up to his feet and skidded down the short cliff in no time, Toad close behind as they hurried toward the pit consumed in fire.

Time? They didn't have much of it.

**Caucasus Mountains, February 1st, 4:00 P.M.**

It hurt. A lot.

But that was understandable. He was burning alive with a bullet in his stomach. Anyone would've been in pain if that was the case.

The fire was ridiculous. He thought getting a boulder to the head was a bitch to deal with. Being set aflame after being shot with a .44 Magnum was ten times worse. Comparing the two was like putting a toothpick next to a Javelin. There _was_ no comparison.  
In any case, Roach knew he was about to die.  
He definitely wasn't okay with this way of leaving the living world. He was betrayed, deceived to a bloodcurdling extreme. On top of that, he was lying in the dirt with his best friend, who was also nearing death.

'_Fuck Shepherd.'_

Roach caught glimpses of Ghost's body as he burned, but he was far too occupied with the agonizing pain to really pay much physical heed to his ally. They were both dead at this rate, that much was certain. Hell, for all he knew, Ghost was probably already dead.

'**_Fuck_**_, Shepherd.'_

Imagine his surprise when he was suddenly dragged out of the pit and bombarded with dirt and none-too light slaps to his person (presumably to put the fire out—it worked, but goddamn, it hurt). Not like he could do much to convey said surprise in the first place.

"Roach? Hey, Roach? Answer me, kid. Tell me you ain't gone yet."

The steady flow of quick words with an American accent behind them was familiar. The Sergeant did his best to respond.

"Shit, thank God. Hang in there, okay? We're gonna get you outta here."

We?

Roach collected himself enough to register that he was being lifted off the ground and into someone's arms. His head lolled over to see a ghillie-suited man approaching with Ghost in his arms before the world went black.

**Afghan airspace, February 2nd, 6:02 P.M.**

Shepherd was dead.

It was a relief, seeing the bastard's body lying motionless in the dirt with a knife sticking out of his eye socket. It enticed a mirthless chuckle out of Price when he saw it, silently commending Soap for his move.

Ah, Soap.

The bloke took a blade to the chest, and he was still breathing. He was charmed, that was certain, but for how much longer?  
Nikolai had been bold enough to go back for them, even though he was blatantly told not to. This was a suicide mission, Price informed him. People don't turn around to pick up the dead.

Thing was, neither Price nor Soap were dead. Not yet, anyway.

"Nikolai, where are you taking us?" The ice-eyed man asked, sparing a glance at his colleague lying on the seat across from him before turning his gaze on the pilot.

"I have a friend in Turkmenistan who owes me a favor. Can he hold on until we land?" Nikolai asked, unmoving. Price looked at Soap, ignoring the frown that tugged at his lips. "Dunno. Can you?"

The Scotsman made a half-hearted gesture with one of his hands, eyes closed. "Aye. Job's not finished, Price. I'm not goin' anywhere." At this, Price snorted.

Stubborn bastard.

**Penza, Russia, February 2nd, 2:30 A.M.**

"The dead can only keep on living for so long," He drawled in Russian, fluent and low. His muted footsteps crunched in the grass as he stalked, spots of blood left on the pebbles he crossed over. Two left, he thought, and that was all for the night. He would make quick work of the last pair.

He could hear their hushed tones and see their figures standing defensively in the white glow of headlights. They gestured out to the darkness with their chins, pointing their guns. They knew it was only one man. His exact spot was a different story. It always was.

"You…pick and choose to do certain things, usually knowing the repercussions before they even happen. Then,"  
_Thck, thck. Thud.  
_"You end up getting yourself killed because you didn't see the fucking twist at the end."

The remaining soldier swore when his colleague went down at his feet, firing into the trees. He received two silenced shots to the leg in reply and stumbled back to lay by the small handful of bodies on the road.

"This brings me to what I said earlier. The dead can only keep on living for so long," The man crooned from the dark, stepping out onto the gravel and aiming down at the other male. He was taught not to fire from the hip, because that wasn't the efficient way to do it back then. Now, it was more than enough.

"So, I don't have a whole lot of time," He paused again, shifting the gun at his side and narrowing his eyes to slits, tossing the Russian for English. "Eat shit, Ivan."

Joseph Allen was gone before the soldier's head hit the ground.

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**A/N: **WHAT'D I SAAAAAY.

Sorry that I started each section off with single sentences. I just…really, really like their context. Or something.

I'll update this eventually. This chapter pretty much just tells you who the main cast is, I guess you could say. Just cocks, man. Cocks everywhere.  
The time and date is gonna differentiate from character to character like this for a while, so please forgive how sporadic it is/will be getting. I'm being careful with it because I haven't done much with the concept.

P.S. If you don't recall, "Ivan" is what the US Rangers called the Russians during MW2. Kinda liked the idea, so I figured Allen's usage of it would be fitting. It isn't the soldier's actual name.


	2. Chapter 1: Escape

**A/N: **Sooo, I apologize in advance for very little happening in this chapter despite it being much longer than the prologue. I promise things will…kinda sorta pick up in 2. D: Ghost/Roach-wise, anyway. I'm still getting the hang of this "EVERYTHING'S HAPPENING AT A DIFFERENT TIME MY GOD" kind of thing, so bear with me, please. :D?

**Somewhere in Russia, February 10th, 2:30 P.M.**

There was something strange going on. He couldn't quite put a name to it, but it was certainly "out of the norm," to borrow an American phrase. He felt it go off like a siren in his head, nagging at him like an overbearing mother. _'Something unusual is happening,'_ It would say, _'Something interesting. Surprising? Maybe…though perhaps it shouldn't be.'_

Vladimir Makarov was naturally a paranoid man. He would never show it, never say it, but he was. He had at least two men tag along on every escapade; not because he wanted protection, but because he didn't want to be the first one shot in the head. As it stood, he didn't trust anyone. He never did. He kept an eye on his own back, because he knew that putting his life into someone else's hands was what cowards did, and he never did like cowards.

He ran his fingers over the various newspaper clippings he had acquired over the years, eyeing them carefully. He'd come so far and done so much. Whatever "strange thing" was going on, he would be sure to get rid of it quickly. He had a feeling that it was far from friendly, judging from how the very thought of it made his skin crawl.

"Makarov," A voice came behind the door; Anatoly. The jet-haired man turned his head up from the desk, his permanent scowl creasing a little bit lower. "Come in." He muttered, watching his footman come in cautiously. Makarov narrowed his eyes. "Is it important?"

Anatoly nodded once, putting his hands in his pockets. "Of course. There have been very…odd rumors going around as of late," He paused, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Something about a radical rebel on the loose." Makarov stared for a few moments, fingers curling on the surface as his head inclined ever-so slowly. "Why is this important? Do you have any proof or is it just some rumor spread out of idiocy?"

Anatoly fidgeted again. "Erm…a patrol squad has been found dead around the southwest everyday for two weeks. And, I think it's important because...well, the bodies have been found closer and closer to here," He stopped again, repressing a visible wince at Makarov's hardening gaze. "I assume whoever is doing this is coming for you."

Neither man said anything for a while. Anatoly busied himself with the shine on his shoes while Makarov stared straight through him, contemplating the information. Finally, the latter cleared the silence by carefully setting the scattered clippings on the desk in a neat pile and pushing them to the side, his attention back on his subordinate. "Is that all you know?"

He was given a nod, making a "peh" noise in return as he waved an impatient hand at Anatoly. "I want whoever this _radical_ is brought here to me so I can shoot him in the head myself." He muttered, idly fingering specks of dust. The other man bowed his head and backed out, opening the door and shutting it as he left the room.

**Caucasus Mountains, February 1st, 4:10 P.M.**

"Hold up."

"What?"

"Hired guns. Just two of them."

"Well shit, let's take 'em out then."

Archer spared a sidelong glance at his partner and frowned, weighing their options. They could try sneaking past the soldiers with extra weight, or they could simply kill them. Toad would, of course, volunteer for the latter option, but Archer wasn't so sure. He would've really rather _not_ have to stop to kill anyone, especially considering that neither Roach nor Ghost looked like they could hold out for much longer. Finally, he shook his head.

"No time. Let's go around." He dismissed, adjusting the body in his arms before crouching down into the shrubbery and moving through. Toad made a sound of disapproval as he followed suit, which Archer ignored. He knew the American was eager for revenge, or at least the opportunity to just kill someone to feel in control of his own life again. Archer understood completely, but now wasn't the time for it. If things worked out well enough, Toad could re-enlist into the service and have a ball killing Ultranationalists to vent his frustrations. Until then, he would have to hold his allies' priorities above his own.

The pair moved quickly in the brush, Toad spotting the soldiers while Archer cleared him a path in the tall grasses. The two half-dead men on their backs had to have at least been somewhat aware of the situation, because they were trying what the others were sure to be their damn hardest to refrain from making any noise. Roach was having an especially hard time, considering the smoke in his lungs and the bullet in his stomach, but he managed.

Once Archer and Toad evaded the soldiers, having moved their teammates to their backs, Ghost leaned over a few inches and muttered something under his breath to the fallen Sergeant, letting his hand brush over his shoulder and then slip off. He received no visible response in return, but it was safe to assume that they had been words of encouragement, or something to that effect.

At this point, the snipers were moving at a swift pace. They wove in and out of the trees and ducked into the shadows whenever they could. They ran and ran until Toad piped with, "Archer, where the hell is the nearest city from here? Roach ain't gonna be breathing for much longer."

Archer didn't slow down as his mind began to strain. He knew where they were at this point; it was only a matter of how close the nearest sophisticated civilization was. Finally, he stopped and shifted Ghost on his back, looking around with a deep frown behind his mask. "Bollocks. Vladikavkaz, maybe? We may have a problem, though." Toad threw a sharp string of curses as he moved on ahead, slowing to a walk. "It took you how long to figure that out?"

The Englishman ignored the bite in his partner's words and shook his head, jogging to catch up. "It's about a kilometer from where we're standing. Even if we sprint, we probably won't make it in time." He patiently explained, reaching up to pull his mask down and inhale a slow breath. Toad shook his head under his ghillie suit and looked back at Roach's head sagged over his shoulder, glaring. "The fuck are we gonna do, then? We're running out of options, _mate_. These guys can't hold out."

Archer's brow furrowed in frustration as he spared his wristwatch a brief glance, looking up and shaking his head. "Did that medical training do you any good, Toad?" He asked. The American shrugged in response. "Did enough," He paused, scowling as the other man set Ghost on the ground. "...Are you serious?"

The sniper nodded and looked up at his partner darkly, gesturing down to the downed Lieutenant. "Toad, _we don't have any bloody time_. Just…do the best you can, alright? Get your med kit out and get on with it. Come on, _now_." He ushered hurriedly when Toad hesitated, turning around once the man put Roach down next to Ghost and began to work. Archer yanked the hood of his ghillie suit down to snatch a breath of frosty air, hiking his M14 EBR higher up on his person and closing his eyes.

**Somewhere in Turkmenistan, February 2nd, 11:04 P.M.**

John Price, against all reasonable optimism, was very sure that Soap wouldn't live through this one. The man was a warrior, yes, but a knife to the chest has been and is still enough to take any warrior down. Hell, the Englishman even started calculating what he was going to do without the captain from this point. He figured he might as well try to regroup with any Task Force members left—_if _there were any left—and go from there. The obvious main objective was killing Makarov, preferably before he committed any more radical crimes that would put nation-wide blame on another country to start _another_ war.

Christ.

The whole time Price sat waiting in the front room, Nikolai sat directly across from him. Thankfully, he didn't speak for the duration of the time. Perhaps he understood the other man's appreciation for silence in a time of grim realism enough to respect his wishes to be left alone without actually being alone.

Finally, some four hours after they had arrived at this place and handed Soap off to Nikolai's friend, said man emerged from the basement with a surgical mask fastened around his face and a blood-stained smock folded over his right arm. Price's attention immediately diverted to him, an unfamiliar Russian that gave the impression he could very well hand them over to the Ultranationalists if he wanted to. He at least _looked_ like an Ultranationalist, but Price had no other choice but to trust him with his comrade's life.

"So?" He inquired, shifting to give the Russian a critical look. The man eyed him carefully, and then turned to address Nikolai. "He will need some time to heal, give or take a couple of months. That is at least when he will be able to jog without gasping for air, anyway," He informed in a flat tone, pausing to pull the face mask down. "But he looks like a man who recovers quickly. He will be fine in six months, maybe seven."

He turned to spare a glance at Price over his shoulder, and then turned his attention back to Nikolai. "I suggest you take them away from here now, before I change my mind and call the militia in to kill them."

With that, he retreated upstairs and left Price in a worse mood than he was already in. At least Soap was alive.

**Caucasus Mountains, February 1st, 8:23 P.M.**

Whatever Toad had done, he had done well.

Ghost and Roach were still breathing thanks to him; barely, but enough to convince the sniper team that they'd hold out long enough for optimal help. Archer didn't feel like it was in his place to question just what the American had done. He had ventured out a little on guard duty, and when he came back after finishing a complete round, Toad was only in one layer of clothing. The rest were placed meticulously over and under the two men on the ground. The burly man was well to refrain from complaining about the cold and actually punched Archer in the side of the head because he had offered his own ghillie suit to him.

The initial plan was to start moving to Vladikavkaz as soon as possible, but with their allies being in the condition they were in and add Toad's adamant insistence that they shouldn't be moved for at least another hour, Archer was forced to settle for staying. He reminded his partner that they couldn't start a fire to keep their teammates warm because that would concoct smoke, which would in turn compromise their location and put them at risk of being found by the Ultranationalists. Toad replied with another well-placed strike to the head.

The snipers didn't have to wait long for a shift in atmosphere. As the sun began to set, stealing the heat away quicker than they would've preferred, activity began to rise in the area. Toad was the first to hear them, having been on watch and allowing Archer a few minutes of rest. Both men were speedy on the uptake and Toad had lifted Roach, huddled into a ghillie suit two sizes too big for him, up from the ground within seconds. The Englishman was in charge of Ghost once again, who had seemed to regain some speck of consciousness as he managed to mumble something incoherent before falling back into silence again.

The scratching of brush being walked around and stepped on grew louder by the second. Archer took point and led Toad through the thinned forest, his maneuvering slowly decreasing in articulation with the fast approaching night. After a few minutes of stumbling in the dark, Archer halted and turned around, setting Ghost down by a tree and pulling his rifle up. Toad hissed impatiently when they stopped, but was otherwise quiet as his partner muttered back to him under his breath.

"Two tangos between the trees. Immediate left." He replied, shifting Roach in his arms. Archer knelt down and put his eye to the scope, closing the other as he carefully tracked the silhouettes. He snaked his hands loosely around the rifle, took a sharp breath, and pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

Toad whistled as he rose to his feet, nodding with approval as Archer retrieved Ghost. "Still got it, Brit. Let's scoot before any of their friends find them bleeding out in the grass."

They both ran until they reached a narrow clearing with a dirt road splitting the middle, Archer having a harder time catching his breath than the two-hundred-something pound American because of the extra weight on his shoulders. Toad didn't have the time to jeer at his partner before headlights sprouted from the trees quite a ways away, signaling an approaching vehicle. The two men set their teammates down on the side of the road immediately, Toad making a gesture at Archer (he assumed he meant to tell him to follow his lead) and walking out to the middle of the road.

The Englishman settled down in the grass beside the road and pointed his rifle upward as the vehicle came and slowed to a halt in front of Toad. The driver leaned his head out to curse at the Task Force member, who remained rooted to his spot and held up three fingers, wagging them toward the dark.

Archer nodded and hopped to his feet, pegging all three occupants in the head and wasting no time in dragging their bodies out of the vehicle and tossing them onto the ground. He moved to place Ghost and Roach in the back of the car as carefully as he could manage, Toad clambering into the driver's seat as he did. Archer climbed in after him and they sped off, smiling to themselves with the firm conviction that they were finally home free.


End file.
